


So Far From Heaven

by CallMeCheerios



Category: Adam (2009), Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Spacedogs - Fandom
Genre: #SpacedogsSummer, Adam Raki is a thing of beauty, Chance Meetings, First Meetings, Gen, M/M, Vulnerable Nigel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 01:04:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7412407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeCheerios/pseuds/CallMeCheerios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starting over is never easy; however, having a gun put to your head is one hell of an incentive. </p>
<p>Nigel is living in the City of Angels, Los Angeles.  He hasn't been there long, but one thing is painfully obvious--this place is so far from Heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Far From Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> This is set post Adam and Charlie Countryman. I have chosen to completely and willfully ignore the ending of Charlie Countryman in favor of substituting my own reality.

Nigel didn’t care for the sound of gunshots. Not one fucking bit. They occupied the space between his heartbeats, speeding up the rhythm to send the blood pumping through his veins so fast he felt light-headed. It made him sweat. It made him feel like he could never sit still. Of course he knew damn well that there was a bullet or two or five waiting for him. His name was etched in the cold, cruel metal of a slug patiently waiting to rip through his flesh. It was just a matter of time until they found him. He had no doubt that he’d be the one responsible for pulling the trigger, but who would be holding the gun was anyone’s guess these days. If he had stayed in Romania the answer would have been clear.

None of that stopped him from carrying his own piece, long barreled and tucked gingerly into the waistband of his slacks. The security found in its weight nestled against his lower back was a blessing during the day. He could walk tall in a strange city and throw all his worries aside. But it couldn't save him while he dreamed. Too often these days he woke up, drenched in sweat as the distinct pop, pop, pop rang out as clear as the approaching day. He could never go back to sleep afterwards; instead he was left to wait for the day to meet him. He’d pace his apartment, enjoying the cool early morning air before the sun rose high and the world started to burn. It haunted him. Those last moments of the dream, right before he jack-knifed into consciousness, made him feel weak and broken like a coward. 

He hadn’t run away: he had left. There was a big fucking difference. 

There wasn’t anything left for him in Bucharest. That life was gone. It had been hollowed out, the very heart and soul of it stolen, until it collapsed in on itself. His world had imploded, leaving him in danger of being buried under the rubble. He had needed to get away, escape the world that had dragged him down so deep, before the flashing lights and sirens, bullets and truths caught up to him. He couldn’t bear the way Gabi looked at him. He had refused to believe she wanted out. He had refused to see himself as the man she saw, the man she loathed. To know the true extent of her disgust as he stared down the barrel of the gun in her hand, was more than he could bear. So he left. 

Nigel had packed a bag, throwing a change of clothes, a few mementos, and all the cash he could find inside. It wasn’t much, but it would last him a while if he was careful. He had his tiny nest egg and a hastily scrawled name and address, and it would have to do. He’d crossed himself and sent up a small prayer as he walked across the tarmac to a waiting plane. He was gone within the hour. As he watched the world fall away and looked for something tangible in the darkness outside his window, he imagined that he was nothing but a vapor trail following in the plane’s wake. He wished he could feel the air wash over him and scrub him clean. He wondered who he would be by the time the plane landed. In theory he could be anyone and anything. In practice he’d still be himself. Starting over wasn't ideal, but it’d give him a chance to put a lot of distance between himself and past mistakes.

There were some fuck ups that couldn't be forgotten or forgiven. 

And now here he was, spending his free time staring at the cracked and flaking ceiling above his head. The mattress beneath him was thin and lumpy, probably not much more comfortable than the decaying wooden lattice that peaked through jagged triangles of missing plaster. His place was a shithole. But it was cheap and temporary at best. It was the perfect place to lay low and get his bearings. 

Nigel had been in California, Los Angeles of all places, for eighty-eight days. Eighty-eight long, monotonous days. He knew, because he’d counted. He’d ticked off each day by scratching a jagged tally mark into the dingy walls of his hovel with the bent key the landlord had handed him. Getting the place hadn’t been a chore. He knew someone who knew someone who didn’t give a damn about leases or real names or who the fuck you were as long as you had enough cash. Cash was king no matter where you went. Where you were born, where you would die, and what you did in between didn’t matter, unless you had money. Then- and only then- were you important. History was proof of that. It was made by the rich and written down by the winners. That those two sets of people were the same more often than not wasn’t a coincidence. It was the desire for money and wealth that made all men equal, but the amount each man had was what stratified the masses. 

Of course in LA a dollar was fuck all. A ten spot might as well have been a few pennies for all that it could get you. He was in the land of riches and excess, Hollywood and so-called American dreams, and Nigel was stuck sweating his balls off as he made his way around the city. Public transport was far too public for his tastes. Being packed in with any number of sweating, inconsiderate people was enough to convince him that Hell was indeed real, City of Angels be damned. This place was so far from Heaven, Nigel felt cheated.

Apparently everyone in LA had a car. Nigel must have been a nobody then since he didn’t. Yet. He’d been growing his collection of things, necessities purchased and savored since he’d arrived. Cell phone, clothing, odd pieces of furniture to shove into his apartment. It was still a poor imitation of the life he had before, but little by little it would all come together. Given time his new life would expand; he would grow and thrive and take over the city. Nigel could be a ghost when he needed to, but the urge to leave his indelible mark on everything and everyone was ingrained so deep it was hard to suppress. It was only a matter of time before it was all his. It could never be said that Nigel lacked vision, he simply prefered quick thinking and instant gratification over a long game. 

For now he was focusing on the day to day. And today looked promising. It had taken a lot of phone calls and subtle name dropping and waiting around to be vetted, but he finally had an in. Things moved slowly when you were starting from scratch. There were no lateral moves--he’d have to start at the bottom and claw his way upwards. It was slow going to start. Trust had to be earned in advance and proven ten times over. Having Darko’s name in his pocket helped ease the way, but being wary of newcomers, no matter how seasoned they may say they are, was just good business sense. 

So he started small, accepting odd jobs and paying his dues with minimal grumbling. Nigel knew that a good attitude could only get a man so far. Being competent was far more important in Nigel’s opinion. A man could be gruff and crass all he wanted as long as he knew what the hell he was doing. It explained a lot about Nigel and the circles he tended to run with. It was the only way to survive really. You had to play the game according to the rules you picked up along the way. Step out of line, and you probably wouldn’t get to walk away. Nigel had learned that lesson at a young age and done his part to ensure that others had learned it as well. It had been a heady rush each time, usually fueled by drugs and alcohol and the bravado that came with living outside the law and the burden of conventional morals. That kind of life was chaotic and unpredictable and, above all else, addicting. 

The afternoon had been dedicated to playing errand boy. Words were exchanged, packages covertly handed over and then discreetly passed on the their rightful owners, and now he was on to the next task. The bus rolled to a stop. Nigel maneuvered himself to the back door, ushered along by the tide of disembarking passengers. The air in LA was thick and heavy. It pressed against him just like the bodies of the other people on the bus. It was a small relief to have both feet planted firmly on the sidewalk, and Nigel breathed deep as he looked off into the distance, squinting to the north. A small voice caught his attention, a polite “excuse me” prompted him to turn and brought him face to face with a striking brunette. 

There was something incontrovertibly wholesome about the other man--the prim sweaters over collared shirts, the neatly parted hair, the baby smooth skin stretched over high cheekbones, and those eyes. They were mesmerizing, so clear and blue. Nigel had only caught a glimpse, all too fleeting, before they were lowered back to the sidewalk and the beauty that housed them was moving on down the sidewalk. Nigel had the wherewithal to mumble a distracted but sincere apology to the man’s retreating back. Nigel watched him go, trying to hold onto the rapidly fading memory of the man’s ethereal face. Perhaps Los Angeles had one angel after all.


End file.
